


This Is It, the Apocalypse

by kay_emm_gee



Series: Carry You With Me [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Future Fic, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 16:47:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4927381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_emm_gee/pseuds/kay_emm_gee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time, when she leaves, Bellamy goes after Clarke, and what happens is the only thing that can when two people who carry the weight of worlds on their shoulders collide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is It, the Apocalypse

_“Do you love him?”_

Clarke glares at the dirt in front of her, a sick feeling in her stomach. “I don’t know.”

_“It shouldn’t be a hard question.”_

“Why not?”

Laughter swirls around her, and she wants to join in and cry at the same time.

_“So, do you?”_

“I don’t want to,” she whispers. “I shouldn’t.”

_“But you do.”_

“That’s why I’m leaving.”

_“You’re scared.”_

She rips up some dry grass from under her palms. “I’m not scared.”

_“Of course you are. It’s okay. To be scared.”_

“Were you? When you followed me down here?”

_“Yes. And no.”_

“I’m so sorry, you know.” Tears blur her vision, and everything becomes a smear of brown and green.

_“So am I.”_

His voice is only a little bitter, and her lips twist into a wry smile, because Wells never could hold too much hate or regret in his heart, while she always held too much and for too long, as she found out the hard way, one of her first lessons on the ground.

“I miss you.”

_“I’m here for you, always.”_

She crumples at that, sobbing into her knees, because he  _will_  always be here, buried six feet under.

_“So are you going to do it differently this time?”_

“Do what?”

_“You know what.”_

“I can’t stay. I can’t.”

He does not answer her this time.

Instead, the crack of a twig breaking under a boot echoes like the sound of gun firing in the ashen remains of their abandoned home, and Clarke tenses, knowing it is the opening shot to the cataclysm that she has been running from ever since the lever was pulled under the mountain, and not by her hand alone.

* * *

Bellamy goes to the dropship, and his jaw ticks when he sees a flash of blonde near the destroyed gates.

He hates her for being so predictable. He hates himself for knowing her so well.

What he can’t quite hate is Clarke sitting at the foot of Wells’ grave, arms wrapped around her knees, head bowed. She looks small, curled into herself like that. Like a woman, not a hero. Like a person, not a legend.

So when he calls out her name, there is not accusatory weight to it. Just a plea.

“Why are you here?” She hisses. “Go home.”

The tears on her cheeks dampen his spark of anger at the dismissal. Even so, he ignores her frown, striding forward to jerk her up off the ground, inexplicably needing to put as much distance between her and the graves, the death at their feet as possible.

“No,” he promises, dragging her towards the dropship.

“Leave me alone,” she snarls, fighting against his grip.

“No,” he vows, spinning her around once they’re inside.

“Let me go,” she screams, finally. Guilt curdles in his stomach, because he can see the stark fear in her eyes. Not of him, but what they could become if she lets them, if he keeps his hands on her, if he moves them a few inches down to the bare skin of her wrist. If she lets him brush his fingers over her pulse, the beat of which is thrumming like that of a war drum at the hollow of her throat.

“You need to let me go.”

Her voice is breaking, but Bellamy is not. With a firm pull, he tugs her closer. As she stumbles into him, her boots scuff against the worn metal floor, which is covered in rust and dirt and blood, sacrifice and memories of lives long gone.

“Don’t do this,” he whispers into the hair at her temple.  “Don’t leave.”

Trembling fingers twist into his shirt. “I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because they need you. And if I stay—you won’t be the same.”

A sharp, mean laugh escapes him, but Clarke doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t ask for the why of it, nor does he offer it. He already isn’t the same. They both know that, too well; they know that they have done too much damage to each other: her leaving, him moving on, her coming back, him wanting something she may not be able to give him.

What Bellamy also knows is that he is a selfish bastard, so he skims his mouth across her cheekbone while his hands slip to grip her waist.

“I can’t,” she warns again.

“I need you to,” he murmurs over her lips. “Isn’t that enough?”

Her hesitating silence is what finally does break him and his gentleness, and he backs her into a nearby wall, roughly, pinning her there with his hips, with his heat, without mercy. If she is going to self-destruct again, he is going down with her.

He surges down as she arches up, and their kiss meets right in the middle, hot and heady and heartfelt. Her fingernails rake against the nape of his neck as his thigh parts her knees, one of which he hikes up over his hip. Gasping at the pressure, she presses all of her into him, letting out quiet keen that he smothers as he parts her lips with his tongue.

The hem of her shirt is all too easy to sneak underneath, to pull up and up until her blonde hair is tossed every which way when he yanks it off. Her pants follow soon after with a shimmy of her hips that makes him groan and bite the swell of her breast. She kisses his cheek hard with cool lips, once, twice, before doing the same to his clothing, then rolling against him, both bared naked to each other in more ways than one.

“Don’t stop,” she whines when he trails kisses down her neck, when he cradles her in his arms while lowering them to the floor.

“Don’t leave,” he speaks into her skin.

She tenses underneath him, and he swears, dropping his forehead to her collarbone. Running his thumbs over her ribcage, he hopes the slip doesn’t make her run any sooner than she is planning, because it is taking all of his strength to keep her here as it is.

Then Clarke says his name, and his gaze snaps up to hers.

“Bellamy,” she apologizes, and his throat dries up at the trust he hears in those three syllables.

Slowly, he breaths out the heat singing in his veins to regain control of himself, sitting up to look at her. She has her arms stretched above her head, and blonde tangles of her hair are splayed out everywhere—the floor, her shoulder, a few strands twisted across her flushed cheeks. When he reaches up to brush them away, her eyes widen and her lips part.

Bellamy stares at her for a long time, his fingers hovering over the scars on her face, her arms, her stomach. Some are familiar and others aren’t, but they crisscross her just the same, fault lines marking how all of her broken pieces fit together. He knows all too well the power that a girl like her holds, that when the inevitable earthquake that she is fighting finally erupts, it will break her apart, scattering all of her pieces so completely that she won’t be able to force them back together again, a shattering of apocalyptic proportions.

But he has already made his decision: he will be with her, if she breaks. His hands tighten around her hips at the thought, pressing like vises into her skin. They are large and strong, his hands. Maybe he can hold her together, like Atlas carried the world, and then maybe she will stay.

So he claims her mouth again, to let her know.

He brushes away the tears that track down her cheeks, and she clutches him closer as she finally understands.

_Together._

This, them, couldn’t end any other way, he knows that now. He tells her with his lips and steady touches, and she agrees with seeking hands and a roll of her hips.

It is together that they fall, her legs wrapping around his middle as his hands grip her thighs, his grunt tangling in the air with her cries. Together, they fall, into something much deeper than a grave and much more dangerous than a war.

After, when she lays across his chest, circling her fingers across his chest while his arms encircle her middle, she whispers, “I don’t know if I can stay.”

He closes his eyes and exhales, knowing this was a possibility. “Then I’ll go with you.” 

He tilts his head so he can look at her, her surprised eyes waiting for him.

“Together,” he promises.

“Together,” she repeats, then adds, quietly, “I could try. To stay.”

Then, closing her eyes, she sighs, burrowing into him, and his heart swells with pleasure that borders on pain.

“Can we figure it out later?” She finally whispers.

He can already feel her breath slowing as sleep pulls at her. It is pulling at him too, but he can’t bring himself to close his eyes, to drift off into an oblivion where he can’t feel the lines of her body, the lift of her chest, the beat of her pulse.

Entangling his fingers with hers, Bellamy murmurs, “Whenever you’re ready.”

She falls asleep in his arms, and everything is still and quiet, as it always in the aftermath of armageddon, and for the first time since being on the ground, the beat of his heart is just as calm as the forest around them.

That is what they don’t tell you about the apocalypse, the after, but it is something Bellamy knows he can get used to, if Clarke is there to face it with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Come cry with me on tumblr: kay-emm-gee.


End file.
